Blood and State

By Anne Callanan and Kathleen E. Lehew

Part 2/22

Ron Butterfield didn't bother to look back when he heard the sound of approaching footsteps. The quiet warning that came through on his earpiece, that yet another staffer in a seemingly unending and unstoppable wave was about to arrive, was also unnecessary. He knew who it was. Even the plush carpeting couldn't muffle the distinct belligerence and tenacity of the man's stride. The deduction and conclusion were both obvious.

Damn! Leo had warned him. It wasn't anything Butterfield hadn't expected; the man was the Communications Director. Ziegler needed to know. But still, a little more time to brace himself for the inevitable onslaught of protests would have been nice. Considering how everyone, including himself, had spent the last few hours scrambling for some sort of safe-ground, he should have known better. Nothing from here on was going to be easy.

Head turned to one side, he leaned his free shoulder against the sill, keeping his other with the weapon harness and gun clear. The window he was staring out was at the end of the corridor, but still gave him a clear view of the bedroom door. It was really a nice view. The sun was setting, the day almost over.

The footsteps halted. A tight smile lifted one corner of Butterfield's mouth. The man was good. He could make even coming to a halt sound combative. Crossing his arms, one hand unconsciously brushing against the gun beneath his jacket and checking its set, he didn't look up.

Clearing his throat, Toby Ziegler fired off the first salvo. "He still in there?"

He was asking about McGarry. And the President. A quick glance down the long corridor at the closed door, the still tense agents stationed outside, and Butterfield nodded in curt reply. Best to keep this simple, hold the unnecessary words at the bare minimum.

"Why aren't you in there with them?"

Butterfield shrugged. "I said what I needed to say."

"Apparently not enough."

"You've got issues?"

"I've got issues."

Eyes narrowing, Butterfield turned away from the deepening reds of the sunset and gave his interrogator a calculating look. Brave man, but two could play this game. "Then why aren't you in there?"

"I wasn't invited." Ziegler scowled. He was damn sure he knew why, too.

"Go figure." Given the fireworks he had overheard when Leo first broached his plan to the Communications Director, Butterfield had a pretty good idea why as well.

Ziegler shoved his hands into his pockets. "You agree with this?"

"Nope."

"Then I ask again, with all due respect and keenly, painfully aware that you carry a loaded firearm and know how to use it..."

Butterfield smiled. Not even the most foolish of observers - and Ziegler was in no way foolish  - would have considered it friendly or encouraging.

Still, the Communications Director didn't let it deter him in the least. "... may I, respectfully, ask why you are not in there stopping it?"

There it was. The sound byte. Shaking his head, Butterfield let out a disgusted huff. He was hanging around the staffers too much. The politicalese was contagious. He frowned, eyes level under drawn brows. It was a rhetorical question.

The man already knew why. "You know the answer to that."

Ziegler's shoulders slumped and he looked away. He knew. "Yeah," he grumbled, admitting the truth sullenly if not graciously. "It's not good, Ron."

"Yeah." For the first time, Butterfield relaxed. Ziegler had made his point and left it at that. As conversations go, this one was right up the Secret Service Agent's alley. No wasted words or oxygen. Just the way he liked it.

"He's wired."

"Leo?"

Wrinkling his nose and scowling, Ziegler nodded.

"We're all wired, Toby."

"Not like him. You think I've got issues?"

That was a topic Butterfield didn't feel at all comfortable discussing. There were already too many layers to this mess without adding more. "It's not our place."

Rolling his eyes, Ziegler laughed shortly. "Well, gee, Ron. Where were you and your sage advice when I needed it?"

"If you'd curb those sadomasochistic tendencies of yours..."

Ziegler winced, cutting him off with a waved hand. That barb had struck a little too close to home. "What are the odds?" he asked, just a hint of self-mockery in his tone.

"With you? Slim to none."

"Will the President go for it?"

Nodding, not trusting himself to speak, Butterfield turned away.

It was all the answer Ziegler needed. "Damn."

"Yeah." Really, Butterfield was finding this whole exchange refreshingly direct and brief. Ziegler had a head on his shoulders and knew how to use it.

Down the corridor, the bedroom door opened and McGarry stepped out. A quiet word with the agents stationed outside and his searching gaze found Butterfield. His expression went a bit congested when he saw Ziegler, then quickly cleared. With a deliberately casual stride, he approached.

Butterfield stepped away from the window, clasping both hands behind his back. Face carefully composed, he waited.

Taking up the agent's vacated position at the window, Ziegler turned away and focused his gaze on the fading light of the sunset, the reds creeping slowly across the manicured lawn. His imagination, still fueled by the horrors of what he'd seen and heard earlier, saw only the spread of blood in the crimson display.

"It's a go," McGarry announced.

Butterfield scowled. "He agreed?"

"He understands the risks."

"No, he doesn't." Ziegler turned away from the window, shrugging past a startled Butterfield and giving McGarry the full extent of his considerable displeasure. "Not all of it. How could he? When most of his advisors don't even know?"

"Don't start with me, Toby," McGarry warned him, stopping just short of snarling. He didn't need this, not again and certainly not now. It was hard enough keeping himself focused without Toby helping. "We don't have time for you to pick this apart in your usual inimical style."

"Get used to it, Leo."

"You'll brief C.J." It was a command and another warning to end it, now.

As usual, Ziegler chose to ignore it. "No."

Butterfield winced.

Blinking, McGarry was taken unawares by that curt reply. He'd given Toby a great deal of leeway over the years, but not for this, and certainly not now. Eyes narrowing, he struggled to keep his voice even. "Toby..."

"I said no, Leo. You started this, you finish it. I want no part of it. I've had my say."

"It's your job."

Not generally privy to these discussions, even Butterfield knew enough of the White House personality dynamics to understand that was the wrong thing to say to Toby Ziegler.

"I'm a senior advisor!" Ziegler snarled, fairly bristling with indignation. "Where was I given the chance to exercise my job on this? Can you answer that? I don't remember getting an invite for that particular meeting. Hell, you've kept your own deputy out of the loop!"

He didn't give a fuming McGarry a chance to answer, waving his hand towards the bedroom door. "The President listens to you... listened to you," he amended shortly, knowing he was riding the thin red line on this. It was familiar territory. "You make C.J. listen. I'll pick up the pieces."

Down the corridor, the agents on guard looked up at the raised voices, regarding the trio suspiciously.

Butterfield waved them off.

Without giving McGarry a chance to respond, Ziegler turned abruptly on his heel and strode off, somehow managing to stomp rather convincingly through the thick carpet. "You'd better be there when he does, Ron," he called back over his shoulder to the grim Secret Service Agent. "Compared to C.J. on a tear, I'm a cake-walk."

A muffled curse was Butterfield's answer to that. A smaller, more reluctant part of his mind had to grudgingly admit the man knew how to make one hell of a dramatic exit.

McGarry was just a bit more vocal, and louder. "Damn it!" He turned to Butterfield, glaring as he demanded coldly, "You got anything else to add? 'Cause now's the time to give whatever objections you have left some air."

Butterfield's head snapped round at that, first incredulous at the question, then his expression stilled. Something indefinable, dangerous and lethal entered the gaze he leveled at the Chief of Staff. He took an abrupt step towards him, hand raised and one adamant finger held up for emphasis. "Get this straight, Leo..."

Startled, McGarry took an involuntary step backwards.

"... I don't like this. You know that. I've had my say. You're playing with fire; we both are. But remember this," his finger stabbed forcefully into McGarry's chest, forcing him back another step. "With or without the President's consent, I can call this off. My call. Not his, not yours. Don't forget that."

McGarry could only stand there, unable to offer up any rebuttal to that threat. Or was it a threat? He wondered briefly if the relief he'd felt at the agent's outburst should be accompanied by guilt. He had started this, over Butterfield's protests and reluctant agreement, but the game was his.

Stepping back, Butterfield adjusted his suit and the set of his firearm. Hand to his earpiece, his listened for a moment, then said calmly, "There's another staff meeting with the President in twenty minutes. Your people are already gathering at the gates." He smiled thinly. "I don't think Toby'll be there."

"The gates." McGarry laughed shortly, bitterly. "The gates have already been breached, Ron."

Butterfield's eyes narrowed. "That's the only reason I'm going along with this."

~ooOoo~

Abbey slipped quietly into the darkened bedroom. The only light came from a lamp beside the bed. Leo must have dimmed the main lights on his way out. She would have appreciated the gesture more if she hadn't known that the senior staff was due to descend en masse within a very short time. A meeting called by Jed; it would hopefully be the last in a day that had already contained far too many such meetings for a man who had been forced to conduct all of them from his sickbed. 

"Abbey," he had said tiredly earlier, "I have to do this. Whatever happened here today, it didn't change that. Only made things more urgent. And there are certain things only the President can do. You know that."

Oh, she knew that all right. Knew it painfully well. No matter what personal catastrophes descended upon the man, the duty of the office remained - taking precedence over all else, including health... and family. 

That last had been painfully demonstrated when a grim and intense McGarry had returned, and she and Hackett had been forced to withdraw from the field, their adversary not yet vanquished. The fact that they had been dismissed so that an even more deadly enemy might be engaged, one with a human form, had done nothing for the temper of either physician. 'First, do no harm' might be a fundamental tenet of the medical profession, but it helped immeasurably if the patient would actually listen. 

Walking softly up to the bed, she studied the offender in question. The glow of the lamplight softened the stark outlines and hues of abrasions and contusions, lending a false color to his features. His eyes were closed and his breathing soft, with only a faint pucker between his brows to betray the ever constant discomfort. 

About to sink into the chair beside the bed, Abbey impulsively settled instead on the mattress next to her husband, careful to do nothing to jar the injured limb that still rested on a pillow, the white of the bandages blending with the crisp linen in the half-light. 

"Mmm..." Her husband stirred and turned his head in her direction. Their eyes met and his lips curled slightly at the corners. He raised his good hand and Abbey captured it, squeezing his fingers gently with silent affection. 

"How do you feel?"

"Not too bad." Bartlet's voice was low and slightly slurred by sleep and fatigue. "The hand is throbbing a bit, but it's, y'know, a clean pain? I can cope with that. Other than that, just a bit achy all over, like flu."

Abbey leaned forward, still holding his hand, to gently brush back the rebellious fringe and rest her hand on his forehead. He flinched at her touch and felt warm, but not seriously so. It was only to be expected after all, given the type of wounds. Infection; not yet a cause for concern and she sincerely doubted Hackett would ever allow it to reach that point.

The Admiral was coming by in the morning to examine and clean the injuries, check for any further signs of danger. She hadn't told Jed that yet, hadn't felt in the mood to listen to his complaining at having to go through all that again. When it came to being poked and prodded, the most powerful man in the free world could be such a child.

And she loved him for it.

"Tired?" she asked.

"Mmm, hmm." Bartlet barely stifled a yawn and grinned up at his wife wryly. He had a fair idea what was coming next.

"You should be sleeping, Jed. In fact, you should have been sleeping for hours. Leo's had his say..."

At the mention of the Chief of Staff, Bartlet's head dropped as if he suddenly couldn't bear to meet his wife's gaze. 

Focused on her goal and driven by concern, Abbey didn't notice.  "... and you can afford to put the others off until tomorrow. They'll understand."

"No." Bartlet's voice was soft with understanding, but his words were firm. "We need to meet with the staff, Abbey. I can't finish for the night without doing that. This has thrown them, badly. The explosion, the attack was bad enough, but now with my thing..." He trailed off, not quite sure she was even listening or agreed, but needing to say it anyway. "They've spent the last year coping with the fallout from that, and the doomsday scenarios in case it happened again. Well, now it has happened again and their imaginations and fears are running riot. We need to reassure them."

"And you think their seeing you like this will help?" Abbey almost flinched at her own words, but forced herself to meet her husband's startled, hurt regard steadily. "Jed, I should bring you a mirror. You look awful." 

"I always said doctors should be motivational speakers," the President muttered with mock severity, an indulgent glint in his eye. "Thanks for that, sweetheart. My fragile ego feels so much better now."

"Somehow, I think your ego will survive."

"Yeah." Bartlet tugged lightly on his wife's hand. "Seriously though, Abbey. So will the rest of me. All of this -" he indicated his face and slightly raised the wrapped left hand from its pillow, only to lower it again with a chagrined grunt of pain,  "- will mend. The staff will see that, need to understand that." He adopted his best cajoling tone, slowly rubbing his thumb in lazy circles across her palm. "It will only be for a few minutes. Then that's it for tonight, I promise." 

His face fell slightly as he studied his wife's unyielding expression. Disappointed that his gentle teasing with her hand wasn't providing half the distraction he'd hoped it would, he tried another tact. "Abbey? Please. I... I just want to see them, speak to them."

Abbey sat back, startled by the note of almost desperate entreaty in that last appeal, the pleading expression in his eyes. Feeling mystified at the strength of emotion behind the words, she nodded wordlessly, ruthlessly crushing down the little tendril of apprehension that once again attempted to coil upwards around her heart.

"Thank you." The words were almost a sigh, and husband and wife sat together in silence for a few moments, basking in the reassurance of each other's presence.  

The President finally broke the silence. "They should be here in a few minutes." 

"I suppose I should straighten up in here a little." Abbey's eyes wandered vacantly around the bedroom. "Put on a few lights."

"Yeah." Her husband shifted painfully. "Abbey, how are the girls?"

Abbey couldn't help the short, rueful laugh that escaped. "Well, the senior staff aren't the only ones in need of reassurance."

Bartlet flinched guiltily. "You spoke to them?"

"I got off the phone with Liz a little while ago. She's worried, but calm and trying to keep Annie from seeing some of the more sensational news reports. Zoey called immediately after." Abbey took a deep breath as she remembered her youngest daughter's tearful, half-hysterical voice. "She's taking it pretty badly, Jed. It's too much like Rosslyn for her."

"I'm just glad she didn't have to see it this time." Bartlet's head was bent, his voice subdued.

"So am I."

Mother and father joined together in a silent, heartfelt prayer of thanks that at least on this occasion none of their children had had to endure the spectacle of their father assaulted and wounded. 

Her vision still clouded by the memory of that old event, Abbey said, "Zoey wanted to come here."

"What?" Bartlet's voice was sharp. "You explained to her, right? She should stay away. I don't want any of our family here just now." Neither a fool nor one to relish losing battles, he hadn't even tried to open up the subject of sending his wife off to safety. "Not until we have some answers. Did Charlie..."

"Relax." Abbey spoke soothingly. No sense letting him get worked up over nothing. She was trying to get him to relax, not rewire him for another emotional waltz. "Charlie's with her. I spoke to him myself. He'll take care of her, make sure she stays put."

"Good." Bartlet hesitated, then had to ask, the word dragging out reluctantly as if he half-feared the answer. "Ellie?"

Abbey winced slightly. So much for getting him to relax. "I couldn't raise her on her cellphone, so I spoke to her detail. They pulled her out of class. Gave her the news." 'What little there was of it anyway,' but she didn't say that aloud.

"She hasn't called?"

"Not yet." Abbey grimaced at the expression of disappointment and resignation that flowed across her husband's features and could not suppress a brief spasm of irritation at her middle daughter.

There had been no return call and Abbey couldn't quite relieve herself of some of that burden. She hadn't called back either, following up on the original reports and broken snatches of information she knew were all Ellie would receive from her agents. Brushing her fingers gently along the line of her husband's jaw - one of the few spots not covered with stitches or cuts - she could only ruefully admit she'd had a few other things on her mind.

A poor excuse, but all Abbey had. She'd try again later; fix it as best she could. 

"Okay." Frowning, Bartlet abruptly turned his face away from his wife's trailing fingers. Pulling himself together, he smiled wanly. "It's not that I don't want them here, you know," he said suddenly.

Abbey squeezed his fingers, felt his hand twitch beneath her touch. "I know, Jed."

"It's just, with everything that's happening, I'm afraid that being near me might put them in danger right now." Bartlet felt as if he were strangling on the words. That he should be the cause of his children being in danger, that his very proximity might spell a threat to them...

He raised a woebegone face to his wife. "I really wish I could see them right now, talk to them. Before..."

"Before what, Jed?"

Bartlet shrugged away the question. It was easier, safer than trying to explain. "Nothing. I've just come to realize there's so many things I want to say to them, to tell them."

"You still have lots of time for that." Abbey spoke reassuringly.

"Yeah." Bartlet's voice was almost inaudible and his chin dropped down onto his chest.

Concerned and, if she were quite honest with herself, just a little frightened, Abbey watched him. Even allowing for the awful events of that dreadful morning, this air of resignation was so unlike him. Normally Jed would be spitting fire, gathering up his energies, however depleted, for the fight and filled with a righteous rage. 

But not this time. This time he seemed to be withdrawing, from her and from his surroundings, retreating to a place she did not understand and where she felt ill equipped to follow. Something had changed, and she wished with all her being that she knew just what that was.

At a loss to know what to say, she settled for that physical contact that was so much a part of their private communion and comfortingly ran her hand up and down his forearm...

Only to watch with startled surprise as her husband twisted away from her with a low hiss of pain.

To be continued…